


I Want to Remember That I Can't Go Back

by lyvanna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek Feels, Fluff, M/M, POV Derek, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyvanna/pseuds/lyvanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek had grown up in a family of werewolves and touch wasn't just second nature to him, it was first. And then it was gone. Until Stiles grabbed his arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want to Remember That I Can't Go Back

Derek had grown up in a family of werewolves and touch wasn't just second nature to him, it was first. His mother's cool hand on the back of his neck as she bent over his homework, his father slinging an arm over his shoulders to tease him about that girl at school, Laura pinching at his bicep and telling him he could carry in the groceries by himself, Jason and Tamara curled against his side as they watched The Simpsons, revelling in the knowledge that their mother thought it wasn't suitable and big brother Derek was the only one who'd let them watch. Big family parties, Peter and Helen and their kids, a new baby to hold, Thomas hanging off his leg as he walked and laughing as he swung him through the air. Running through the Hale property, partially shifted, tripping uncle Eric and attempting to climb a tree to get away, being pulled back down and collapsing into Jenny's arms, blushing at his teenage crush. Kate straddling his lap, her rich scent bathing every part of him, hands hot on his shoulders, thighs wrapped around him. 

And then it was gone. Every bit of it. And even if he'd wanted to touch other people, they suddenly didn't want to touch him. The Sheriff put out a hand to comfort him, then snatched it back at the last second, and he knew they were all afraid now. But for the longest while it didn't matter. It was just another thing that was gone. And the only time he touched people was in anger, fists and claws. Of all the things he'd lost it seemed the least important. 

Until Stiles grabbed his arm. 

Then it was like an electric shock, a craving in him that went deeper than want. An ache in his chest that sat closer to pain than pleasure. Then he noticed, finally noticed, how the hairs on his arm rose of their own accord, reaching out into the brush of fingers, calling for attention. He'd grown to accept that touch was just something he wouldn't have again. Something he'd never feel the same way about as he did back then. It was so tied up with who he'd been, the stupid boy who killed his family, that it was nothing to do with who was was now. 

His reaction now was weak. Just as it had been back then when the touches of another person had clouded his mind, made him not pay attention, made him not care. Weak and angry. He lashed out and pushed away. His need, the thing that swelled up his throat, that clenched his heart, locked his arms, it stopped him from focussing.  Made him think and hope for things that weren't possible anymore. For things that had been burnt out of him. 

He tried. He tried to build a new pack, but it was broken from the start. Tried to pick people who would need him but he could never rise to their expectations, never give them the intimacy, the leadership, the safety that they needed. He didn't know how. Those feelings felt more like a dream now, a past that had perhaps happened to someone else. His touches to them were cold, nervous, unschooled. It was the best he had.  He couldn't hold them together. 

Stiles' hands would reach out sometimes, as if to touch him, then snatch away again, instead running against his own face, trailing long fingers down his neck, rubbing a tired palm against his eyes, holding a pen to his mouth to chew absent-mindedly. He'd grab at Scott, shake Allison by the shoulders, even rearrange Lydia's hair occasionally (with permission), but he kept away from Derek. 

He couldn't blame him. Years of not being touched meant that not only did Derek not really remember what it was like, he didn't know how to react to the brush of skin with anything more than a glare, a mental (and occasionally physical) cringe backwards. The only difference is that now he almost feels like he wants it to be different. The thought squeezes at his queazy stomach, brings back memories of once-pleasant touches that ruined the man he was supposed to become.  

When fate finally intervenes, puts them together in a cave, bodies flush against each other and shivering wet as he holds Stiles up on a ledge, trying to keep him from falling before Scott finds them. He feels the boy's heartbeat echoing through his own body, feels him trembling with cold and adrenaline and knows he's trembling too. Lowers his head, slowly and uncertainly onto the boy's shoulder, presses his forehead against the wet t-shirt and just breathes. He doesn't want to want, but he does. Doesn't want to let go but does, when Scott and Jackson find them and lift Stiles down first. He didn't even register Stiles fingers clutching at his arms until they're gone, not even a mark to show they were there, just the lingering phantom of a touch. 

Now he brushes a hand against the back of Stiles' neck, waits for the boy to tense and holds back a tremble when he doesn't. Enjoys the easy smile that comes his way. Their fingers touch over a card game, Stiles slaps at his hand when he tries to grab the last slice of pizza, he leaps from the top step of the porch and grabs onto Derek's shoulders on the way down, they both reach for the car door at the same time and share an awkward laugh (though his own sounds a little crazed, a little broken and out of practice to his own ears), their feet touch under the table and Stiles tries to turn it into a foot-war (which he wins easily), their knees bump against each other on the couch during a frustrating game of Mario Kart. And slowly, without meaning to, Derek get used to it. Doesn't take it for granted, doesn't enjoy it less, but finds himself relaxing. When Stiles musses up his hair then immediately gets this look on his face like maybe he's made a huge mistake and crossed that barrier that they're both trying to pretend they don't see, he only freezes for a heartbeat, maybe two, before raising an eyebrow, quirking the corner of his mouth into a smile, all while wishing for the boy's panicked heart-rate to slow. Wishing that he wasn't such a frightening broken thing that he scared, scarred and destroyed everything around him. Wishing he could remember how to be something else. He can't seem to do anything about his own heart.

But Stiles can. He slaps Derek's chest when talking animatedly to Scott and doesn't even flinch an apology, he wrestles Derek for the last of the ketchup and ends up with it all over his favourite hoodie while declaring Derek a 'butthole' without the slightest trace of venom, strokes at Derek's stubble with curious fingers and intense eyes that have Derek withdrawing, fleeing to his pack in confusion. He finds himself accepting a pat on the back from Erica without thought, a stroke up the spine from Isaac that feels like nothing more than home, than family, than healing. 

He sees Stiles. Confused, vulnerable, nervous. And he takes his mouth, in small stilted movements, cupping his jaw and lowering his lips, hot breath mingling, pulling that lower lip between his own, tracing delicate skin with his tongue, swallowing a sigh of contentment and pulling Stiles' murmured 'finally' into his skin. He feels the flutter of Stiles' eyelashes against his cheek, delicate, and knows he's still afraid. He lost this before. Had it and lost it. He wraps Stiles into his arms, an impromptu hug that startles, and feels the boy's arms slowly encircling him, warm hands splaying against his back. He's afraid. But he can't not have this anymore. Can't live like he did. So he holds Stiles tight and becomes a new person. Not that boy from the past, or the broken man he became, but a mixture of the two. A man with a future. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is kinda from 'New American Classic' by Taking Back Sunday (actual lyrics 'I want to remember what I know, that I can't go back').


End file.
